


Helpless

by thisplace_ishaunted



Category: Motionless in White (Band)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Infatuation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24498748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisplace_ishaunted/pseuds/thisplace_ishaunted
Summary: Chris had been infatuated with Ricky since they met, but stupid baby Ricky had to get his stupid baby leg caught in the stage, and now he is bleeding everywhere and Chris was screaming inside.or, in other words, Ricky gets hurt and Chris conveniently comes to the rescue.
Relationships: Chris "Motionless" Cerulli/Ricky "Horror" Olson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	Helpless

**Author's Note:**

> This turned from a cutesy hurt/comfort into literally Chris being unhealthily obsessed, so I'm not sure where that came from, but it's here now. I seem to only write the two extremes of Chris being cute and adorable or being mentally unhinged, there is no in between lol.
> 
> There is a reference to some noncon/dubcon stuff, but it doesn't go in that direction, but that is kind of the character I was writing Chris as here.

Over the sound of the crowd and his in-ear monitor, Chris had not heard the sudden _thunk_ as Ricky had fallen through the shitty platforms making up the stage. Chris had eventually looked far enough back to his right, and realized that his bandmate was lodged knee-deep. Ricky’s panicked, bugged eyes were visible past where his stringy hair was landing in his face, but his fingers were still fumbling through the riffs, as determined as ever. Chris immediately panicked, but he saw no sign from Ricky that the song needed to be abandoned. As soon as he was able, Ricky pulled his guitar off over his head and recklessly pried himself free. Chris and the others had taken a pause in the set, allowing Ricky to regain composure and place a box of some sort over the new hole in the floor, so as to not make the same mistake again. Ricky had insisted the show continue, despite the worry ballooning in Chris’ chest.  
After playing through another song, the adrenaline had begun wear off, and Ricky took a moment to actually look down and inspect the damage. His drop into the floor had caused his shin to scrape up against something sharp and not meant for human contact. The gash in Ricky’s leg had torn apart his jeans, starting from mid-shin and moving upwards past his knee. He was surprised he had not twisted, or even broke, his ankle in the awkward half-meter drop through the platforms acting as a stage. His persistent use of the leg throughout the set caused the gash to continue bleeding, running down the rest of his shin and soaking his pants. The sting of the air on the fresh wound was becoming increasingly distracting, but with only two songs left of their set, Ricky managed to push on.  
After their final song, the group exited the stage before quickly focusing their attention to the damage of Ricky’s leg.  
“I thought these platforms looked like shit. I bet we could sue or something,” Ryan cursed as he swung over a chair for Ricky to take a seat.  
“Ryan, no, just give me a second. I’m sure its fine it just fucking hurts,” Ricky replied with a grimace, leaning back in the chair and extending his leg out straight.  
“Seriously, I think he hurt himself bad.”  
Chris stood further away from where the rest of the group was surrounding Ricky, chugging a water bottle and trying to remind himself that, in this context, Ricky was a grown-ass adult who didn’t need coddling. Every instinct in his body was telling him to go scoop up the little helpless bird and hide him from the world, tending to his wounds and kissing him better… maybe, or maybe not, allowing him to fly off on his own when he is healed. Maybe he would just keep him to himself and break him more.  
Chris felt like it wasn’t even his fault that he babied Ricky. Just look at him: nearly half the size of Chris, with knobby knees and delicate veiny wrists and a jawline that could only be improved by seeing the stretch of Chris’ hand underneath it.  
Chris had been infatuated with Ricky since they met, but stupid baby Ricky had to get his stupid baby leg caught in the stage, and now he is bleeding everywhere and Chris was screaming inside.  
This was his chance.  
“Should we move him somewhere else? Like a couch or something?” Angelo suggested to the group, receiving no response from Ricky. “Chris, what do you think?”  
Chris wordlessly tossed his drained water bottle on a side-stage table and marched over to Ricky. He bent down and allowed Ricky to throw his arm over his shoulder, helping him stand, and they began hobbling off in the direction of the dressing rooms. The rest of the guys were left behind, slightly surprised by the dramatic exit.  
“I bet you were getting sick of them bickering about you like you weren’t there.”  
“Actually, yeah. You kind of saved me from them collectively doing surgery on me or something.”  
Ricky stifled a grunt with pain as they were forced to take a couple of steps down some sketchy stairs lined with glowing tape.  
Chris’ awkward crouch that was required for Ricky to keep his arm over Chris’ shoulder was doing a number on his back. The difference in their height was laughably obvious now, and growing more irritating by the second.  
“Rick, stop,” Chris muttered, before, without hesitation, using his other arm to scoop up Ricky.  
“Oh, thanks. This is probably easier honestly,” Ricky exhaled a chuckle. His chin was curled into his chest, one arm still around Chris’ shoulders and the other laid in his lap. He wasn’t really sure of what to do or say; being carried wasn't something he was used to as an adult. Chris could see where his hand was grasping under Ricky’s bent knees, the blood from the gash beginning to coat his hand and make his fingers sticky.  
The two of them quickly reached the dressing rooms in the back hallway, but Chris unexpectedly kicked the door open to the one not belonging to them. The opening band that had inhabited this room were already off for the night, their belongings gone, save for a few scattered water bottles and paper plates stained with grease.  
Chris bent his knees to lower Ricky carefully onto an overly worn black pleather couch. Too many years of abuse had led the material to crack and flake away, exposing the stained linen underneath. A couple people had put out their cigarettes in the material, spotting ugly burn holes around the arm rests. It was a couch better fit for under a bridge than the stage for wound care.  
Ricky unhooked his arm from around Chris’ neck, and laid back into the couch, propping his wounded leg up on a nearby chair. He tucked his hands in between his thighs and bounced his other knee out of both pain and nervousness.  
Chris used the sink in the room to wash his hands as thoroughly as he could, but a lack of paper towels forced him to run his hands down his thighs in an attempt to dry them. He figured it was better than nothing.  
A haphazard first aid kit was tucked underneath the sink, an old toolbox stocked and pulled from over the years with random boxes of bandages and anti-itch cream. It would have to suffice. Chris pulled it out and brought it over to Ricky, assessing what he had to work with.  
“I’m gonna try my best with this,” Chris said, feigning a sense of casualness. He took a seat in another chair and fumbled through the box, pulling out, surprisingly, a sealed roll of gauze.  
“I could probably do it myself, you don’t have to help me.”  
“I don’t want you to do this by yourself… but I do think you’re going to have to take off your jeans.”  
Ricky didn’t respond except for a glance upwards, meeting Chris’ eyes before looking back down at his leg. He removed his belt and unbuttoned his jeans, and Chris untied and removed his shoes, tossing them to the side. Ricky lifted his hips off the couch and pulled his jeans down to his thighs.  
“I think I need your help getting it past the…”  
Chris took the top of Ricky’s pants out of his hands, and began slowly peeling them downward. The black denim had nearly cemented itself to Ricky’s skin with the drying blood surrounding the wound. The pull of the fabric caused Ricky to wince as Chris continued to peel the pants off of his knee and shin, and off of his foot. Ricky kicked the pants off of his other leg, landing on top of his Vans.  
Actually assessing the gash in his leg felt like it made the pain even worse. Whatever scraped his shin in his sudden descent through the stage had really torn up his skin. Some of the shallower areas had began to scab and coagulate while others continued to weep fresh blood, irritated by the pull of the jeans.  
“Fuck, dude,” Ricky muttered and looked up at the ceiling, his head resting on the back of the couch.  
Chris grabbed an abandoned water bottle and began pouring the water over Ricky’s leg. The water ran off the wound and dribbled down either side of Ricky’s calf, landing in pink puddles on the filthy tile floor. Chris used some of the gauze in wads to begin dabbing at the blood, cleaning it up as much as he could.  
Ricky sat still now, continuing to stare at the ceiling and suppressing whimpers of pain.  
Chris took his work seriously. It was his responsibility to see that Ricky was taken care of with the utmost tenderness; it was _he_ , of course, that was being entrusted with such delicate tasks for a delicate bird.  
Chris took pride in knowing that any of the other guys would have botched the job. _He_ was the only one that could do it right.  
Continuing to dab at the wound, Chris’ fingers became coated in Ricky’s blood as they held onto the wad of gauze. His eyes traveled upwards from where he was working, taking note of how Ricky’s boxer briefs were hugging his thighs.  
His eyes continued upwards, seeing how the worn collar of Ricky’s t-shirt sat in just a way that his collarbones peaked out, leading up to his exposed neck… Ricky’s head tilted back at the perfect angle leaving his gorgeous neck vulnerable to Chris’ hungry eyes.  
Chris pictured how he would kiss Ricky in this moment: wrapping the stretch of his bloodied hand under his chin, holding him in place, as he eagerly would lap at the side of his face and dominate his mouth. The sticky blood would leave a dull red handprint along Ricky’s jaw. _Marked as mine with his own blood…_ Chris chuckled to himself.  
_Maybe I should just do it,_ he thought. He had Ricky in the perfect place, wounded, defenseless, alienated. If any time he would make a move, it would be now. _Ricky would feel obligated._  
The wound had been sufficiently dabbed clean, and Chris tossed the soaked gauze towards the trashcan adjacent to the door. It bounced off the rim and landed on the floor.  
Ricky looked back at Chris, examining his work. “You’re doing a good job, thank you.”  
Chris could have dropped dead right there, heart swelling with infatuation.  
“You’re not done yet, so don’t move,” Chris responded.  
Chris grabbed the rest of the roll of gauze and held it to Ricky’s skin at his knee. He began unrolling the length and wrapping it around Ricky’s calf and shin, watching as the wound disappeared under the white material.  
With each wrap around Ricky’s leg, Chris’ thoughts swung back and forth between extremes in his mind. He might as well have been picking petals off a flower.  
_He loves me…  
He loves me not…  
He owes me now…  
He is just being polite…  
Nobody else will take care of him like I will…  
Nobody else cares…  
Nobody…  
Only me…_  
Chris tucked the end of the gauze under the wraps at Ricky’s ankle. The entirety of the wound was covered now; the only thing making Ricky need Chris was taken care of. There was no longer anything connecting the two of them. The wound was taken care of. _My chance is gone. I let it slip._  
Ricky took his leg off the chair and stood before Chris could oppose. Ricky’s sock feet were dangerously close to the wet puddles on the floor. Chris nearly told him to be careful, but stopped himself. _Stupid Ricky nearly stepping in the obvious puddles, and nobody likes wet socks._  
Ricky grabbed his ruined jeans and shoes off the floor, making towards the door to leave and go into their own dressing room next door.  
“Thanks, Chris. I really appreciate it. I guess we will see how it heals, but I’m sure I will be fine,” Ricky said casually over his shoulder while reaching for the doorknob. Ricky had expected him to follow right behind, but Chris stayed seated and watched as Ricky opened the door and left him alone.  
Chris stood and walked back over to the sink. He looked down and studied how Ricky’s blood coated his hands and stained the thighs of his jeans. Looking into the mirror, finding his own eyes, Chris brought his hand up and wiped it across his lips and cheeks. _Even without him knowing it, I am marked as his._  
He could smell Ricky on his skin.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Helpless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28882923) by [thisplace_ishaunted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisplace_ishaunted/pseuds/thisplace_ishaunted)




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